You think too highly of yourself, oh mind,

to answer questions God as yet has not.

It is a wisdom of the baser kind

that storms His silence with unbridled thought—

for who can cypher symbols from the dark

or wrangle possibility to stage,

to poke and prod and deftly pin the arc

of Spring’s tale, half-told, to Fall’s unwritten page?

Tomorrow, padlocked, all its secrets keep;

the sharpest analytics are no key.

Why squander given strength and needed sleep

to play the Sovereign you will never be?

Your gentle Master owns His servant’s fate;

lay down your logic then, and love, and wait.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s